


meant to fly

by activatingAggro (pigeonfancier)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Dehumanization, Gen, Helmstrolls, Medical Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 06:20:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16738720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/activatingAggro
Summary: “Arm,” she orders, and when you hold it out, she strips off your sleeve like it’s hardly worth a note.Her nails catch on your skin. When you look down, there’s white streaks left behind, little furrows free of blood. (Give ‘em a second, they’ll fill with orange.) But you can’t look down for long, because she’s prying at your ports, long nails hooking under the metal caps and pulling up.There’s not much sensation in your ports. There’s just the feeling that it’s wrong, wrong, wrong, the silent klaxon of someone touching something they shouldn’t. Like fingers on your lungs.Or a hand in your mouth.You watch the walls, ears up high so you don’t look ungrateful.Riccin gets a routine medical examine.





	meant to fly

> _imperial education program headquarters, temasek |_ hanhai district

When she pries back your lips, it’s a wonder you don’t bite her. You _hate_ medical exams. You hate medical examiners, and out of the entire bunch, your proctor is the worst of them all. At least Kazumi takes care not to scratch you with his nails while he works.

The Shepherd doesn’t give a damn, so long as you don’t flinch.

“The teeth are mostly grown in,” she announces, stepping back and stripping off her gloves. You keep your ears up and your face bland. Kazumi’s keeping a steady murmur into his pen behind her, barely blinking as he throws away the gloves, but when he catches your eye, he winces.

Only for a moment. By the time the Shepherd turns to look at him, fins flared, he’s back to his usual stoicism. “Incisors may continue growth. Make note to keep track of future length. Removal may be necessary.” She’s got the naval accent, nasal and so soft, it’s like she ain’t talking about removing parts of you. “What is the current height?”

“7'2, ma'am.”

“ _Foutredieu_. What’re you people feeding them, straight protein? Get leg measurements before they leave, Kazumi.”

Your breath catches.

“Yes, ma'am.”

If you were a proper helm by now, you could be halfway out of your pan and into the net. It ain’t like there’s a reason they’ve held off. ID had that put in when he was seven sweeps, along with the nanny, and Proper.. well, you don’t know when they plugged that shit in, but you’re half certain they’ve got it, too.

But you’re not. You don’t get a single thing put in your pan, or in your body, without the Shepherd’s say so, and all she wants to do is work on your psionics until you’re in the rig. It’s fucking absurd to think that it’s bullshit. Your proctor is older than your entire bloodline: she pulled you out of the slurry like thread on the loom, and without her, you would’ve been lost. Anything short of acquisal is nothing but the most vile kind of treachery, the sort of worthless ingratitude that they try to beat out.

You’re not fucking ungrateful. Ain’t even a doubt in your mind that every instant of her attention is a blessing upon you. But..

You just wish you could at least pull out your phone.

But the Shepherd demands respect, and you know what happens when she doesn’t get it. So when she turns to look at you again, you’re holding still, your chin up, ears high.

“Arm,” she orders, and when you hold it out, she strips off your sleeve like it’s hardly worth a note.

Her nails catch on your skin. When you look down, there’s white streaks left behind, little furrows free of blood. (Give ‘em a second, they’ll fill with orange.) But you can’t look down for long, because she’s prying at your ports, long nails hooking under the metal caps and pulling up.

There’s not much sensation in your ports. There’s just the feeling that it’s wrong, wrong, wrong, the silent klaxon of someone touching something they shouldn’t. Like fingers on your lungs.

Or a hand in your mouth.

You watch the walls, ears up high so you don’t look ungrateful.

“They’re wearing indigo,” she says, brisk, and you jerk hard enough to startle. Or you would’ve: there’s an iron grip on your shoulder suddenly, fingers firm enough to bruise as they hold you in place. “Still.” There’s no ire in her voice, just impatience. You can feel the impact of the knife hitting your ports, for all that you can’t feel the actual slice of your wires.

(You don’t need to. You shouldn’t be thinking of them. It’s not your blood catching on the blade. The wires aren’t actually a part of your body. There’s nothing here to hurt, even if you could feel it.)

“Why are they wearing indigo, Kazumi?”

“Ah…” He blinks at you, wide-eyed, his mouth twisted to the side. But whatever answer he’s looking for, you can’t supply it, not with the Shepherd sitting right there. “They.. it’s a part of the program, ma'am.”

“They’re putting the helms in their colours?”

“.. yes, ma'am.”

“Ridiculous,” she says, flat. “How are they supposed to learn their places if they are being treated as highbloods? Look at me, Kāyata.”

The knife klacks against the edge of your port, loud enough that you can hear it.

“ Kāyata.”

And then you feel the pinch of fingers digging into your cheeks as she pulls your face to look at her. “They can’t even obey orders.”

“I’m sorry, proctor,” you murmur, your voice rough. Seadwellers always look strange. Their skin’s too sleek. Their eyes don’t blink. “Hearing’s been on the fritz since Carnival.”

She clicks her tongue at you, close enough to Sipara that it feels like a slap. Your ears go back, and that doesn’t please her none, either: her mouth pinches, her fins flare, then she lets go of you. “And then they offer excuses. _Mon dieu._ ”

“Burn the clothes, Kazumi,” she adds, and steps back. It’s only when she turns away that you realise she’s done; when you look down, the caps are back on your arm, and the tray next to you is filled with wire, and the fuschia-tipped blade. “And get them some in the right colour.”


End file.
